(no subject)
22.893 words.
I start to wonder, sometimes, if the story is worth telling. If I, you, the world at large needs one more story.
I ask myself if it's just the music I'm listening to right now. Or the fact I'm on my fourth cup of coffee, or chainsmoked three cigarettes, lighting end off butt off end. You get the picture.
Is it foolish? What kind of change do I hope to affect with these ramblings?
It's hard for me to imagine what I would do if I didn't feel the need to compose. Write letters? Jog? I can see why people get so into taking care of pets, pursue hobbies or sex or collections with such vigor-it seems to give some sense of purpose to activity. I don't think I've ever had that sense of purpose, though, just some goals that I push myself to, that I rotate upon completion or in the face of frustration. But I'm okay with that, too. I don't need a grand unifying reason at the end of the day; the day is reason enough to not do something drastic and midlife-crisisy.
I wonder if I watched more teevee if I would get as angsty. If I were to consume massive quantities of CSI, Lost, Deal or No Deal, Gilligans Island, The Andy Griffith Show, et al., if I would get so bumbling and self-conscious.
Have any of you fallen in love with a stranger? Someone whom you've seen time and time again, and didn't know a name, a purpose, religious beliefs, whether or not they want or have children, and any of that shit that we deceive ourselves with as being definitive and important?
Have you ever wondered if the person you're talking to, isn't just listening, but instead just patiently waiting their turn?
I watched skippi leave this morning for work about an hour ago, and I'm here to tell you, intimacy isn't nakedness, marriage, a close friendship over years of disagreement, crossed communication, shared joys and sorrows. Intimacy has got nothing on seeing a person the first twenty minutes out the sack.
I internalize a lot that I see over the course of the day. A crying child, a scolding mother, a woman helping her elderly mother up a flight of stairs, the older woman frightened and shaking, the younger woman gently encouraging and worried. The casual insults and compliments, even down to a kind word, a brief, momentary deferment, or, wonder of wonders, a smile. Consider, for a moment, the beautiful train wreck that is social interaction, and I dare you to not be awestruck, and perhaps a bit frightened. I, personally take comfort and courage in my own experience, my friends, my family, my lovers, hoping they forgive my transgressions. I was never too good at socializing.
Someone asked me the "point of it all" the other day. I quoted Vonnegut at him "We're on earth to fart around, and don't let anyone tell you different."
Made sense then, makes sense now.
I should go to bed.